Mags and Brax at the Fair
by RuthieGreen
Summary: What happens when there is a mystery to solve and it is Margaret who saves the day? Little bit of fluff set in S:13 (mild spoiler alert.) Inspired by Arwen Humphries' answer to the question: "What story line would you like to see for Margaret?"
1. Chapter 1

"**Mags and Brax at the Fair"**

_(A/N: At the 2019 MM Toronto Luncheon, Arwen Humphries was asked what sort of storyline she'd like to see for Margaret…so, here it is, as ordered. Thank you Arwen for the suggestion/inspiration. We all need a little more Margaret! –rg)_

_**A country village, northwest of Toronto….**_

CHAPTER ONE

"…Well, my girl, that was quite something. Quite something indeed!"

Thomas Brackenreid beamed approvingly as he helped Margaret down from the raised platform where she had been presiding for the last half hour, pausing while she shook hands and accepted compliments from a few in the fairground's mostly female crowd. A photographer asked Margaret to pose for him and couple of middle-aged women even sought her autograph. His wife wore a large green and gold silk sash announcing, "Madison's Fine Beef," so no one could mistake her for anything but the center of attention. _Although I'm not so sure about Mrs. Brackenreid being labeled as if she hung in a butcher shop,_ he thought wryly. His view, however, did not matter; as her escort, he was largely ignored.

Margaret's brown eyes shone, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure, _and a little pride_, he noticed, about her outing this autumn afternoon as the 'face' of Madison's tinned goods. His wife had been making these personal appearances regularly since winning Madison's cooking competition, and her reign was not coming to an end. Not at all. The company was very pleased with how she represented them, she seemed to increase their sales, so there was talk about extending her contract for another year. Her portrait was even now gracing Madison's new offering: a Canadian corned beef meant to compete with Messrs. Libby of Chicago. He was reminded how Margaret had fretted for days about which dress to wear and how to coif her hair, all for naught it turned out, as the artist who created the label drew an oval frame tightly around her profile. Thomas unconsciously puffed up a bit recalling how much more Margaret loved the portrait he himself had almost finished. A painting she could_ 'hang in the parlor_,' as she requested, as opposed to the more risqué nude in their bedroom.

Oddly enough, this was Thomas' first experience watching her, start to finish, at one of these events, and he came away impressed by her stage presence. At a podium, before an audience, Margaret exuded confidence and poise whilst extoling the virtues of Madison's products, answering questions or giving advice. In truth, none of the Brackenreid family could stand the stuff plain out of the can, but since Margaret got a free case every other month, he'd come to terms with it showing up at his supper table, grateful his wife was a good cook and able with spices. More impressive was how she promoted Madison's product…_As if she actually enjoyed it_, he sniggered to himself. He always knew she could make a compelling case in a one-on-one situation, but never appreciated her latent acting talent in this way before. It was quite a revelation.

_Maybe our son John's desire to have a career on stage comes not just from me but from her too! _His grin widened at the thought, taking her arm in his.

"Why thank you, Thomas," she said while sending him her most brilliant smile. Margaret felt supremely happy at the moment…emotionally intoxicated, if truth be told. She relished these outings. From her reticule she flourished a four-dollar bill, worn from use, but valid currency none-the-less. "And this is what I got for my appearance fee this month, minus travel expenses of course…not too bad for a few hours on a Saturday." Her eyes crinkled mischievously then she gave him a wink and a laugh.

_Margaret has always had a nose for business, _Thomas told himself. For these appearances, per hour, she made more than he did as a police inspector. He chuckled along with her, giving her a squeeze. "Not only a celebrity, but a well-paid one too."

"I do love it, you know," she sighed, still smiling as she adjusted her sash. "My celebrity, as you call it, is a part time situation. It will not be forever, I am aware of that, but it remains very satisfying." She gazed at her husband, pleased at how distinguished he looked today in his dark gray suit, dove gray waistcoat and burgundy cravat. "I will continue to maintain my domestic responsibilities and attend to my wedding planning business. But, for as long as it lasts," she burnished the currency between her gloved fingers, "this goes a long way towards some of life's little luxuries." Margaret slipped the bill back in her pouch and adjusted her hat, the midnight blue velvet chapeau decorated with taffeta roses she got from Thomas for their anniversary. It went very well with the blue woolen serge dress she wore today. _Thank Goodness he went to the milliner's and exchanged that broadbrimmed horror of white ostrich feathers on black he'd originally brought home, which I wore to scare those little brats on Halloween._ She smiled at the memory, enjoying _that _performance very much. _It was so good to laugh with Thomas. _She sighed again with satisfaction.

The early November day was mild with red and orange maple leaves crunching under their feet as they walked, with that particular shade of blue sky that signals 'Fall' soaring above their heads. Margaret felt tickled with the day, with herself, and grateful to have Thomas by her side. She turned her head up to him, catching his smile. His hair might be faded and his face might show some age, but he was still the one who made her heart beat. "Only one last thing to do and then we are going home." She hugged his arm as they strolled towards a large open barn set up with rows of tables along the perimeter displaying produce, flowers and food which had been judged, the winning items already beribboned.

The ultimate event before the fair closed down was the Burnhamthorpe Harvest Fair's Annual Pie Contest. Sponsored by the Ontario Fruit Grange and Mr. Spreckles' C&H Sugar Company, the first prize was a blue ribbon and the handsome sum of twenty dollars, with the winner being invited to a baking event in Toronto at Christmas, similar to Madison's cooking contest, but promising even more prize money and the lure of potential fame.

More importantly, the village of Burnhamthorpe was counting on the Pie Contest to raise significant funds for otherwise unaffordable community improvements. This year, it was going to be a gazebo in the village square, the posters for which decorated the fairgrounds. After the pies were judged, they were to be divvied up and sold, adding more money to the kitty.

Margaret had been thrilled to be asked to serve as this year's judge and she suggested Thomas as co-judge, something Margaret knew Thomas was looking forward to; he'd forgone a big meal to have enough room in his stomach for the task ahead. There were probably more than thirty pies on offer, so she hoped he was hungry.

While Thomas wandered away to gaze fondly at the pastry he was about to sample, Margaret took stock of the situation, noting where the judging was going to be held - a dais positively groaning under swaths of red and white bunting. She could not find Mrs. Josepha Rathburn and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathburn, the women who headed the organizing committee for the pie contest. The expectation was that she and Thomas will take bites from each pie, judge them on appearance, crust, filling, and overall taste, confer with each other and select a winner, second and third place, while the anxious bakers and audience watched. She will then present an enormous blue ribbon with rosettes to the winner and festoon her with a sash, while Mrs. Richard Rathburn awarded the grand prize money. Reputations and bragging rights were on the line.

_I would not be surprised if there was a betting pool too_, she guessed. The pie competition was therefore fierce, just the way she liked it.

Margaret frowned. The time was getting short to prepare but there was no one in sight. She was about to search outside when Mrs. Josepha Rathburn, a tall and trim widow with chestnut hair, bustled through with her younger, shorter-statured sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathburn, who also possessed a lithe figure and red-brown hair. The younger woman pulled at her elder's sleeve. Both women appeared distraught, sharing hissed comments and wide light eyes. Margaret approached them, wondering what possibly upset these two matrons. "Ladies? What is amiss?" she asked.

The two Mrs. Rathburns stopped talking immediately, each with a handkerchief in their square hands which they wrung and twisted synchronously. Together they rushed towards Margaret, the ladies' black and grey skirts in disarray around their legs. "Oh, my, oh my! What shall we _**do**_, Mrs. Brackenreid?" Mrs. Josepha Rathburn pleaded.

"I cannot believe it. It is a disaster!" Mrs. Richard Rathburn was white-faced.

"Yes, a disaster," her sister-in-law agreed. "What should we do, Mrs. Brackenreid?"

Margaret cut through the distress, pressing for an actual detail about the problem. "Do about _what_, Mrs. Rathburn?"

The women looked at each other, then in unison explained.** "All** of the entry money and all the prize money is gone!"

"Oh, dear," Margaret gasped.

"And we have only an hour until the judging starts!" the elder Mrs. Rathburn added frantically. "The Pie Contest is almost the entire the reason for the Harvest Fair's existence and it is _**the **_event of the year. The whole town will be here for the judging and the awards ceremony...!" This had both women verging on tears.

Margaret realized immediately what the problem was - this was not just a theft or loss of a fundraiser, but a bigger social disaster.

Margaret put her hand out, one on each lady for reassurance. "What we are going to do is find the culprits and bring them to justice…." She said confidently. When that did not mollify the ladies she added, "and we will get all the money back before the judging starts!"


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"You did _**what?**_" Thomas was taken aback. "Margaret, how could you promise to solve this in an hour?"

"Now Thomas, I am not married to a police inspector for nothing. What is the advice you always give when solving a case…?"

"Follow the money?"

"Exactly!" Margaret tapped him on his chest. "So, where do we begin?"

Thomas pulled her aside by the elbow. "There must have been a couple hundred people in and out of the fairgrounds today. The thief is long gone by now!" he insisted, trying to reason with her. "No one in their right mind hangs around when cash is burning a hole in their pocket. What we need to do is call the local constabulary to chase after him."

"No. I don't believe so. The Mrs. Rathburns say there are only a handful of people who could have had access to the money, and the ladies are certain none of them have left."

Thomas eyed the ladies in question, his first thought being that the Rathburn boys, whoever they were, had similar taste in wives, and the second thought was that the women appeared out of their depth.

"Those two biddies couldn't be certain how to stop a pig in a ginnel!" he groused to his wife under his breath, until he saw her face fall. "Oh, Bloody Hell, Margaret, let the local coppers have at it while we tuck into some luncheon." His words were reinforced by growls from his stomach. "The sponsors will be out their prize money but can well afford it, considering the cost of a loaf of sugar these days."

Margaret shook her head and lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. "Thomas, you don't understand. Calling the constabulary is going to cause more problems. These ladies are going to be held responsible for giving each contestant back the entry fee as well as reimbursing the prize money to the sponsor. It is a fortune to them. They cannot afford that! Worse yet, they will be humiliated either as frauds or as fools. This is a small community, and these women will never live it down."

Thomas saw Margaret draw herself up in that way he knew signaled his wife planned to be stubborn about it, all five feet of her radiating determination. "Now, Margaret…" he tried to intervene before she got a head of steam on her, but he never had a chance.

"Yes, _**now**_, Thomas. Help me now." She pulled his arm along, marching them towards the pair of sisters-in-law at the center of the kerfuffle. "Tell us what we need to do."

_We?_ he asked himself. He dug his heels in, forcing her to halt. "Margaret, those ladies are suspects as well." When she stared open-mouthed at him, he chuckled. "Don't be naive. At the start of an investigation, everyone is a suspect, and an investigation takes time…" _Perhaps not as much time as Murdoch needs, but…_ This last part he muttered under his breath. "But an _hour_…?" he shook his head in warning.

She furrowed her brow, not giving an inch. She wanted very much to help. "So, what do we do?"

He noticed the 'we' again. Thomas was disconcerted; he'd never worked an investigation with his wife before, never even thought about it. _It was rather a ridiculous notion_. He was going to argue, then looked at her expectant face and gave a sigh. "We will start by interviewing the two Mrs. Rathburns and they will show us where the money was kept. We will make sure no one touches anything and make sure no one leaves. We should talk with everyone who had access to the money. Then we look for, er… clues."

Margaret's smile rewarded him. "Excellent." She gripped his arm again and propelled them forward.

As he approached their goal, Thomas geared himself to getting this over with as soon as possible and then handing it over to the locals. In the meantime, he'd make a stab at a proper investigation, ticking off procedures and priorities in his head. _The motive seems clear_, he told himself, _financial gain_. _Means was probably all too easy…lifting the money from some flimsy cigar box which was sitting unguarded._ Opportunity, he believed was the real problem, with hundreds of suspects out of which one genuine culprit, he was sure, was already miles away.

After introductions and making a request for all who had access to the money be assembled, he began. "So, ladies, please show me where the money was kept."

Mrs. Richard Rathburn, brought him and Margaret to a small tack room in the back of the barn. Instead of a cigar box, he found a metal lock box sitting open on a clean white shelf, next to a pile of silk ribbons. "Is this just as you found it?" he asked.

"Yes. I came in with my sister-in-law, through that door and we saw immediately the money was gone."

"Was the door was unlocked?" Mrs. Rathburn's face flushed from the neck up. "I take that as a yes. Then what?" he prompted.

"We were in shock, of course, so confused. It seemed impossible…"

_Impossible?_ Thomas thought the theft was nearly inevitable. "You did not touch the box again?" The ladies shook their heads. "How much money was there, Madam, exactly?"

"Thirty-eight dollars and twenty cents. Exactly." Mrs. Rathburn whispered, bottom lip trembling.

"_**Thirty-eight…**__!"_ Thomas' loud eruption was cut off by a sharp elbow from Margaret in his ribs. He winced at the absurdity as much as at the pain_. I am doing all this for thirty-eight dollars? I presumed it was at least a hundred quid_. He gave his wife a dirty look.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rathburn," Margaret soothed the woman, while giving Thomas her own admonishing look. "That was everything in the box?"

"Yes. There were ten cents from each baker who entered a pie, and prize money of twenty, ten and five dollars," Mrs. Rathburn's voice quavered and she bunched her grey skirts nervously in her hands before recalling her dignity. She set her hands together tightly. "Myself and my sister-in-law were responsible for collecting the cash and placing it in the box. We both counted it and closed the lid."

"Who knew the money was there besides you two?" Thomas recovered enough to ask.

"Mrs. Chiplow, Mrs. Rutley, Mrs. Eglinton, Mrs. Aikins, Mrs. Ottewell, and, well... Miss Beech."

Mrs. Rathburn listed them off while Thomas went to pick up the box and examine it on a small table built into the wall. He decided that he'd need to start taking notes, before remembering he did not have any notebook. He frowned at the strong box. It was heavy, about ten inches long, seven inches wide and perhaps four inches high. It appeared antique with a complicated-looking mechanical lock in the lid which Thomas tried and failed to budge. He turned the box over in his hands. "Damn," he muttered. Belatedly embarrassed, he looked up to apologize. "Sorry ladies." He put the box down and fished his handkerchief out to wipe grease off his hands before soiling his grey suit with any.

He wondered aloud. "You used a lock box which does not lock? Why?"

"The committee has used that same box since the inception of the fair, sort of a tradition, and it no longer locks. As you discovered it is seized with rust. My husband, Mr. Rathburn tried to free the mechanism last night, but he was unable. I apologize…" She trailed off with a stricken look on her face.

Margaret felt terrible for the woman. "Never mind that. As for being unable to lock the box, I am sure that is neither his fault nor yours, Mrs. Rathburn." _Really, what was Thomas thinking in being so harsh with his questions?_ "Shall we talk with the committee ladies?" She took Mrs. Richard Rathburn's elbow and escorted her to where the others waited, Thomas following along.

In the center of the barn, Margaret and Thomas found seven ladies, ranging in age from nearly doddering to milkmaid fresh. Mrs. Rathburn joined them, making eight. Thomas introduced himself, asking for some paper and a pencil.

"Margaret, will you do the honors?" he requested, handing her the implements. "Please?" he added.

As Thomas asked his questions and she took notes, Margaret observed how her husband organized the interviews. In all her years as Mrs. Brackenreid she had never really gotten to see him working a case, only hearing about them in what she knew was an edited version to protect her and the boys. Watching him now, she was fascinated. She saw he was thoughtful and logical if a little more abrupt than she'd prefer…_Although he is under a certain time pressure_, she allowed.

Margaret realized by interviewing the women, _suspects_, she corrected herself, interviewing the suspects one at a time, Thomas was angling his questions to see who might not have any witness for their whereabouts when the money was unguarded. By his fifth interview Thomas was muttering about needing a blackboard. She herself found the whole thing somewhat confusing, although it was not that different from when she needed to suss out what John and Bobby had been up to or hiding, by looking for inconsistencies in their stories and using her intuition to determine which son was lying. Now this, she thought of the interview technique Thomas employed, was something she understood.

_Who knew that police work was so much like raising boys? _

Margaret held that thought in her mind while Thomas continued. The two Mrs. Rathburns sat stone-faced in a row of chairs which held the rest of the ladies, all dressed in their Sunday best and in various stages of discontent with the proceedings. Having heard the interviews and taken copious notes as directed by Thomas, she had no idea how any of that was going to help him at all, or help get the money returned. Only three of the ladies could account for their whereabouts during the critical forty-five minutes between when the last of the money was placed in the box and when the Mrs. Rathburns found the box empty. That left five women under suspicion, including the two Mrs. Rathburns. By now the committee members all realized one of them might be a thief and were giving each other uncomfortable sidelong glances.

Margaret started wishing she had never gotten involved in the whole mess and was feeling desperately bad for having promised, so confidently, that she and Thomas would be able to get to the bottom of the theft. The Mrs. Rathburns also probable regretted their asking for Thomas and her help, since fingers were pointed at them now too.

Margaret handed Thomas her notes to review, then set herself back down to study the women across from her, lined up as if they were at some awkward cotillion, waiting for an equally awkward boy to ask them to dance. _Eight women_, she thought, _eight women in their best dresses, hats and white gloves, and one of whom was venal enough to steal from her neighbors. _

_Eight women…_Margaret narrowed her eyes. _Eight chairs, eight women, eight, dresses, eight hats…._

"Thomas?" She called him over for a whispered conference. "What have you figured out?"

"Nothing! Not having an alibi is not a crime, Margaret," he said tiredly. "And it is not proof of anything. Everyone has something to hide, everyone lies; you learn that on the job. That is not the problem. The problem is figuring out which lies matter and what secrets matter. There is not enough time."

"So, you do you think one of them is lying?" she asked, looking at the row of farm wives and shop-keeper's daughters whose reputations were about to be sullied.

Thomas followed her gaze, nodding. "They are all nervous, embarrassed and worried, but there is nothing I can arrest any of them for, and it is not my jurisdiction even if I could. I have no reason to even search the ladies, and, well…" he coughed, "I can't anyway…Besides, it is like I said at the beginning. The thief and the money are long gone…" He took out his pocket watch, "Anyway, we have run out of time."

Margaret saw a slight grease smudge still on his fingers holding the watch. "Careful of your waistcoat…" Then the idea struck her. _Could it be?_

"Thomas, please ask the two Mrs. Rathburns and Miss Beech to join me in the tack room? Tell them we need their help one more time."

Thomas' eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"The Mrs. Rathburns and Miss Beech, please Thomas." Margaret stood and went on ahead, heart racing in her chest. Her excitement rose further when the three ladies arrived, and she watched them carefully as they strode into the small room. Miss Beech's colour was high and she appeared nervous, while the Mrs. Rathburns seemed pale and overwhelmed. Margaret closed the door and faced them.

"Ladies, my husband, Inspector Brackenreid of the Toronto Constabulary, has conducted hundreds of cases in his career, putting criminals away and getting justice for the victims. As for where the Pie Contest money has gone, I think we can settle this, with just a little more help from the three of you."

Margaret held their utmost attention now. "Mrs. Josepha Rathburn, you told my husband you and your sister-in-law were the only ones to handle the cash box today, collecting the proceeds and securing the prize money, is that right?"

"Yes," she answered.

"May I see your hands, ladies?"

The Mrs. Rathburns shared to puzzled look, then shrugged and removed their gloves. Indeed, despite trying to wash the grease stain away, each Mrs. Rathburn had smudges on her hands. Miss Beech's hands, in contrast, were clean. "Thank you, ladies. If you will wait outside?"

The Mrs. Rathburns opened the door. Miss Beech tried to leave with them. Margaret stopped her. "Miss Beech, if you please, only a moment more."

Margaret closed the door carefully, then approached the young woman. "Miss Beech, may I see your white gloves?"

Miss Beech's composure was crumbling. "I…I did not wear any today, because I misplaced them somewhere."

"I don't think so, Miss Beech." Margaret's voice was clear and steady. "No lady, be it queen or char woman, leaves her house without gloves nor easily misplaces them any more than she would leave the house without a hat and hatpin to keep it on her head. All the committee members have white gloves, in fact, that is part of the expected outfit for today's event. Except you." Margaret saw Miss Beech stiffen. "I think you got them dirty picking up the cash box, not realizing it had been oiled in an attempt to get the lock to work again. Gloves are too expensive to just throw away, and I can tell by the way your skirt is draping that you have them inside your petticoat pocket…" she looked directly into the other woman's eyes, "along with the money, I presume, because you had no time to hide it and this whole area has been searched." Margaret said this calmly despite how triumphant she felt inside as she saw Miss Beech's face waver then tears begin to flow down her bright red cheeks.

Miss Beech wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, defiant, even angry now. "So, you know. Is your husband going to arrest me?"

Margaret thought about it. "Why did you do it?"

Miss Beech looked shocked at the question. "Because I am the best baker in town, and everyone knows it!"

"I don't understand," Margaret prompted her.

"Being on the committee meant that I could not enter the contest this year. The other women were jealous, so by getting me on the committee they got me out of the way. That contest was going to be my big chance."

Miss Beech was young, pretty and, in her own mind, talented, and wasting away in a rural backwater. Margaret understood this young woman's ambition. "Why not just decline?"

Miss Beech sobbed. "Decline? I picked the short straw, everyone saw it. I'd never live it down if I tried to get out of it. So, I thought, if I don't get to compete, nobody gets to compete. I wasn't going to keep the money, you know."

Margaret believed her. This was a very small town, too small to tolerate someone who did not take their turn, did not play by the rules…or was a thief. A town where being picked to head a committee as important as the annual pie contest meant, this year at least, you lost out on something better. Margaret did not like Miss Beech's odds for fitting in, here in Burnhamthorpe, when all this comes out.

"I guess it was not such a good idea…" Miss Beech pulled her soiled gloves out of her petticoat pocket along with three folded bills and a pouch of coins and handed them to Margaret. Then, straightening her shoulders, Miss Beech went to open the door.

Margaret hesitated. Miss Beech committed a crime. If she was arrested the money would go into evidence, or at least that is what Thomas had told her. It was not just Miss Beech's freedom or reputation that was at stake. There would be a black eye for the fair and the town. No gazebo in the village square. There was Miss Beech's family, the other pie contest committee members' embarrassment and the Mrs. Rathburns to consider.

There was also Margaret's own chance to judge the pie contest…

"One moment, Miss Beech…"

# # # # # # # # # #

Thomas groaned in pain as he handed Margaret into the carriage, then hauled himself up beside her. "If I ever eat another piece of pie in my lifetime, just shoot me," he said as he rubbed his stomach. "No more, I tell you. Never again!"

"Oh, Thomas. You say that now…but next Sunday you will want pie all the same," Margaret told him fondly. Indeed, she herself felt a little woozy and over-full from her pie eating duty. She took little bites, not the big portions Thomas had tried to keep up with, but the whalebone was digging into her sides. "You have nothing to complain about. YOU are not wearing a corset."

"God forbid!" he chuckled. Thomas picked up his wife's hand and kissed it. "Have I told you again how proud I am of you for figuring that all out?"

"You can tell me again, I don't mind. Besides, it was fun to see you work a case."

Thomas nodded in agreement; admiration written all over his face. "Yes, but I was rather stuck, and you got to it, even figured out how poor little Miss Beech could save face by pretending you and I were going to donate the thirty-fours dollars…"

"And twenty cents…"

"…And twenty cents to the fundraiser to cover the expenses."

Margaret smiled. "Miss Beech will not get off scot free. The Mrs. Rathburns will figure it out, if they have not already, and if they so choose, can ruin Miss Beech with gossip just as surely as if she'd been arrested." Margaret thought about how she first met Thomas. "Although…being arrested is not all bad…" She reached for her husband to kiss him. "That is how I got you…"

He kissed her back. "Still, I am impressed at how you pulled it off, never would have known that ladies' gloves could be a clue."

"We all have our areas of expertise," she answered.

Thomas looked at her critically, then teased her. "Never thought of you before as a detective sort…"

She smiled wickedly. "As I said, I am not the wife of a police inspector for nothing!"

**-END- **

_Dear Reader_:

Thanx for coming along for the read! Hope you enjoyed this little fluffy romp in the country. Reviews welcome. **Also BIG thanx to Arwen Humphries** for being such a good sport for playing along and inspiring the story, and to GMM for being my proxy at the MM luncheon, which guest-featured Thomas Craig and Arwen. Sorry I missed it, but the mountains were calling and I had to go.

As always, my gratitude to Maureen Jennings and MM for allowing us to play in her world. Thanx as again to "Dutch" for story beta-read and for helping me figure out just what piece of Edwardian manners to exploit this time. You have no idea how many rules there were for women from undergarments, to which dressed to wear when, to kinds of hats and what gloves to wear when and why, to take them on or off… the violation of which resulted in social opprobrium.


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